


A Man Like A Black Hole

by orphan_account



Category: Septiplier - Fandom, jacksepticeye, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Cutesy, Drunkenness, First Impressions, First Meetings, Fluff, Inspired by Music, M/M, Markiplier - Freeform, Musician Mark, Poet Jack, Poet/Musician, Poetic, Septiplier - Freeform, jacksepticeye - Freeform, markiplier/jacksepticeye - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-04-08 10:52:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4301952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack had always been down on his luck, after all, trying to be a successful poet did that to a person. All he wanted was to just write and drink with his buddies in peace, but one night when his friends are all gone, he meets Mark, a man with eyes like black holes and a personality just as inescapable. And that night, his life changes, for better or worse, he can't really tell anymore. All he knows or cares about is that Mark is in his life, and with him, everything is going to be one hell of a roller-coaster ride.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Where It All Began

In the 24 years Sean McLoughlin had lived on Earth, he had never met someone quite like Mark Fischbach.

That wasn't mean to be an insult. In fact, now that he thought about it, it was probably one of the best compliments he had ever thought up. With those dark brown eyes that attracted the eyes of everyone else around like iron to a magnet, that smile that could infect people from miles and miles away, and that laugh that would make even the most hardened of hearts melt, how could you possibly forget him? He was one of the people you would bump into on the street and never forget the face of, even when you're old and your memory is fading. Mark himself was like a black hole, sucking in everyone around him, captivating them in a way no other human could naturally do.

Jack had met him, like all cheesy romantic-comedies tell you, at the bus stop. Unfortunately for Jack, this was far from the cheesy rom-com movies of yore. Why, you may be asking?

Because in that particular moment of time, Jack was shitfaced drunk.

He had ridden up to the bar in his friend's car--he didn't remember which friend it was, he was pretty out of it--but by the time he was ready to go home, everyone else he had gone with had either gone home alone earlier or had went home with someone else. So he decided that since he hadn't brought his car, plus he wasn't going to be a nuisance to others and drive drunk because that's illegal, he would take the bus. Why not? What was the worst thing that could happen?

He felt his eyelids getting heavier and heavier. He couldn't pass out here. If he missed this bus, chances were he wasn't going to get home. He supposed he could try to walk, but then again, his house wasn't exactly nearby, and he was already so close to just falling asleep on the bench.

"Uh, I'm assuming this seat isn't taken?" asked someone. A guy. Jack felt his entire being jump when he felt the plop of the person's body right next to him. He opened his eyes, startled. What he saw when he opened his eyes, he saw the storm clouds in his mind part and the light of Jesus peek in.

Jack shook his head and said, "No, no, not at all. Sorry, I'm a little out of it..." Or at least that's how HE thinks he said it. (Truth be told, his version wasn't NEARLY as eloquent, and consisted more of slurs and a mix of the brogue in his voice than actual words.) But the guy seemed to understand him, and he flashed a winning smile, like a teen heartthrob would show the camera after being accused of sleeping with a younger pop star.

The guy looked Jack up and down, and Jack felt himself slowly getting over his drunkenness somehow. This guy was like a damn hangover cure. A life-saving medicine in the midst of a terminal illness. A helicopter seeing a sign you left in the sand as you felt yourself beginning to starve to death on a desert island.

"Uh, my name is Mark," the stranger stammered, holding out a hand in Jack's direction.

Jack felt a sweat begin to break out on his forehead. Fuck, he was messed up... He tried to make up for the shift in perception from the booze when trying to grab Mark's hand, but he failed miserably, missing his hand entirely. He looked up into Mark's eyes and let out a nervous chuckle. Mark was still smirking, like he knew something important that Jack didn't.

"Sorry, I'm kinda drunk off my arse right now," Jack admitted, feeling a blush coming over him. He wasn't sure if the blush was primarily caused by the attractive man staring right at him or if it was primarily caused by the alcohol coursing through his blood right at the moment, but either way, both were to blame.

Mark shook his head and moved his hand back to his side of the bench, still with that magazine cover smirk. "Don't worry about it. I was walking up here and I kinda saw you stumbling everywhere. You almost ran into the light pole, and I was about to yell out and warn you about it, but you seem to be a big boy. After all, you navigated that pole perfectly."

Alright, the blush was coming from Mark.

"Heh, well, I do know my way around a pole," Jack inserted. WHAT THE FUCK HAD HE JUST SAID? DID HE LITERALLY JUST MAKE A GAY JOKE TO A HOT STRANGER? WHAT WAS GOING ON INSIDE OF HIS HEAD RIGHT NOW?

Mark let out a chuckle that basically made a tear in every single fabric of space and time ever and replied, "Wow, alright, so you're completely wasted. I suppose I'll be a kind soul and offer to make sure you get home safely. I mean, what if you happened to find a pole you COULDN'T circumnavigate, like the Magellan of lamp posts? I wouldn't want to be responsible for you breaking something like your face or your arm because of a vertical metal bar."

Was this handsome stranger asking to accompany Jack home?

DID THAT STUPID GAY JOKE ACTUALLY PAY OFF?

Jack sighed. "I suppose if you really wanted to, I could let you help me keep myself from ramming into the nearest street sign." This was one of the greatest nights of Jack's life, right here. This was actually really going well for him, all things considering. Most people left after the first gay joke was uttered. But this guy... this guy stayed. It was like they were written in the stars, like a string of fate was connecting them by the finger. It was practically like the heavens themselves were falling down around them.

He really needed to lay off the Shakespearean dialogue in his head.

Mark's smirk widened and Jack felt like he was ascending into the heavens without any way of getting down. This was almost euphoric in a sense. This meeting was destined to be. It was the weirdest fucking thing that had ever happened in Jack's entire life, but it was fated. Somehow, Jack felt like this was who he was meant to marry, and that thought scared him.

"Good, because even if you had said no, I was still going to make sure you didn't fall onto the sidewalk and die a terrible, boozy death."

That's when the bus pulled up and became Jack's main priority. Mark stayed closely behind as he got up in order to step into the bus, and Jack fished around in his pocket in order to get money to pay the driver as Mark entered. Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and a radiation of pure glowing warmth settled over him. "You go ahead, I'll pay," Mark said, patting Jack's shoulder twice before reaching into his own pocket.

Why did this guy have to be so fucking perfect? Jack wanted half to kiss him and half to punch him square in the diamond-cut jawline. Then again, if he would have punched him, chances were that he would break every bone in his hand.

He found a seat (although that part wasn't hard, considering most sane people didn't take buses at roughly 2:30 in the morning) and waited for Mark to follow, and sure enough, there he was, willing to sit as close to Jack as possible. He flashed him a small smile again and Jack tried to muster one in response.

What was this angel doing sitting next to him and how did he possibly get so lucky? This was the big question floating around in the murky alcohol-filled swamp in Jack's head. It was a strange question, he knew, considering he didn't even know this guy much, but he was still going to ask it anyway, because there was still an attractive man that was helping him out while he was drunk off his ass. Which he TOTALLY DIDN'T HAVE TO DO, but he was going to do it anyway.

Jack watched as the blur of lights passed through the windows of the bus. He wanted to keep looking at them. The colors tangoed in front of his eyes and the brightness smeared together until it was all a big, beautiful, singular light. He wanted to stare at that light until he went blind.

He was cut out of his train of thought by Mark's throat-clearing. Jack stopped looking at the light and turned to Mark.

"So, uh... what do you do for a living?" asked Mark, in a quieter tone than he had used on the bench at the bus stop.

Jack felt more sweat building up. Should he tell him the truth and say he was a starving artist? A poet and the world didn't know it? An author with no audience? Or should he tell Mark what he wanted to hear? He could say that he was working an internship for a decent-sized company. That was a viable option. He could tell Mark that he was an undercover agent and that Mark was his target, which was not only mysterious as all get-out, but also the smoothest thing Jack had probably ever thought to say in response to being asked his occupation.

But he knew that no matter what, he could NEVER pull off that joke, so instead he was honest. "Uh... I write poems?" He inflected the end of the sentence as a question, which served to make him seem even MORE pathetic in the eyes of Mark (or at least, Jack would find someone who said that in the tone he did pathetic were he in Mark's position).

Mark nodded. "Wow, that's actually really interesting. I've always read these great poems and thought how easy it would be to write them myself, but once I've tried and tried again, I can never seem to come up with the beautiful metaphors you seem to... And it's funny because I myself want to get into writing."

WHAT. WHAT. WHAT. DID JACK JUST HEAR WHAT HE THOUGHT HE JUST HEARD? DID THIS MAN JUST SAY THAT HE WANTED TO BE A POET?

"Trust me when I say it's not as fun as it sounds," Jack replied, "honestly it's hard to scrape by." He grunted as he adjusted himself in the seat. Public transportation wasn't always the most comfortable, but he supposed he shouldn't be complaining, all things considering. After all, he was seated next to an attractive guy who was paying for his bus ride home. This was good compared to most of Jack's nights.

Mark shrugged. "I think it'd be great to be able to come up with that kind of art like that. I've never understood how people could do that. I like to sing, myself, but I could never write a serious song."

Jack shook his head. "I'm sure you'd be able to if you put enough thought into it, you would be able to write something really beautiful. Now, sing for me. I want to hear your voice." He was genuinely curious if this man could possibly get any better at everything ever.

Mark shook his head, letting out a nervous laugh. "No, you really don't want to hear it. I like singing, I never said I was GOOD at it," he said.

With that beautiful of a speaking voice, Jack had a hard time imagining his singing voice was anything less than the choir of angels in heaven itself personified. It was practically impossible to think that this man WASN'T a goddamn rock god, what with the flannel look he was sporting and the fauxhawk. Jack would have an easier time being convinced that there were living dinosaurs still in existence.

Jack rolled his eyes at Mark and gave him his best "bitch, please" expression. "C'mon. Show old Jackaboy what you got. I won't judge."

Mark looked unsure in his own abilities, and to Jack, that was one of the most heartbreaking things anyone could ever do. Jack prided himself in being proud of everything he had, no matter if it was a thing to actually be proud of or not. He should never be apologetic for who he was and what he could do in his life, and that was the motto that Jack lived by each day. He was proud of himself, and he wasn't going to let a minor slip-up stop him from doing whatever the fuck he wanted to. He wished that more people thought this way, but for now, he could at least try to convert one more person to his way of thinking.

Mark sighed and cleared his throat again before opening his mouth and singing a little arpeggio of sorts. Jack was floored. He couldn't believe how beautiful and clear the tone of his voice was. He expected something close to his speaking voice, but this was much better. Mark had a really great voice, without even trying. Was there ANYTHING this man couldn't do?

"See? That wasn't so hard!" Jack said, playfully hitting Mark on the shoulder. He smiled at him, a subtle shyness falling over his face. And if there was ANYTHING Mark wasn't, at least from what Jack knew about him so far, it was subtle.

"Thanks. I wish I could be able to work on that though. I also really want to learn how to play guitar and piano." His eyes lit up when he talked about his musical interest, and that lifted Jack's heart a little. It was absolutely amazing to see him thinking about all these things he wanted to do with his life. This man was a godsend. Maybe hanging out with him could be beneficial towards both of them. Jack could be inspired to write more poetry, and Mark could be inspired to work more on his musicality. Jack didn't know the first thing about music, but when he heard how Mark talked about it, he wanted to learn about it. Mark was still talking, but the sheer joy on his face had brought Jack into a state of mind that needed to be focused on or else it would be lost. He wished he had brought his notepad with him. He had a pencil, he just didn't have a spare sheet of paper.

This man was perfect to write about.

Jack smirked as he kept watching Mark's lips move. It was fascinating to just be there and see him being so excited about this. He didn't even know this man, and already, he felt so close to him, like they were kindred spirits. "What are you thinking about?" Mark asked him, when he finally felt as if he could remember this moment and be able to write about it once he got home.

"What do you mean?"

"You're not listening to me. You're thinking about something else. What are you thinking about that is oh so important?"

There was no inflection of Mark's tone that suggested even for a second that he was angry with Jack for not listening to him. Just curiosity. Jack felt comfortable admitting that he hadn't been listening, but he was worried that the booze cloud in his mind would make him blurt out something stupid. "I was just thinking about how I really need to write a poem soon. Like, as soon as I get home," Jack said. Yeah, that was perfect. He didn't give any indication that the poem was about Mark, but he gave him the truth. Jack wished that he could give good answers like that constantly, or at least think of them in enough time to say them properly.

And Mark understood what Jack meant when he said that without another word said, which was the greatest possible thing ever. He wanted nothing more than to just talk to this man forever, because from what he could gather, there was a quality about him that was always fascinating, like if he talked to him for the rest of eternity, Jack still wouldn't find out everything about him. And that quality was what was the most amazing thing about him. That single fact right there was the most interesting thing to Jack. That quality is what he lived for. It was the strangest thing, but it was also really comforting to know.

Mark was an enigma. A man like a black hole. And he knew one thing for damn sure: things were going to get interesting having met him.

The bus stopped as Jack was staring at Mark, lost in the woods of his own head, chasing a butterfly dream that was about as guaranteed as anything else in life. Not guaranteed at all. His eyes were all that he could see and all he could feel and all he could think about. The black hole was sucking him in and everything else around him, lost in the vacuum of space that Mark was taking up.

"How far away is your house?" he asked.

Jack shrugged and said, "Well from here, it's only a couple blocks."

Mark's eyes widened a little in response. "Really? Then you live fairly close to me then. I wonder why we haven't seen each other before tonight?" As Mark waited for Jack to get off of the bus, Jack felt himself slip on one of the steps. Oh God, not this cheesy bullshit. Not this romantic-comedy movie bullshit AGAIN. NOT THIS. ANYTHING BUT THIS.

It happened. Jack stumbled, fell, and Mark caught him. It made sense, because Mark had really nice muscles that Jack had completely forgotten to even think about over the fact that he was so attractive and smart and funny, and honestly, Jack felt like Mark was holding him up so his feet were no longer touching the ground. It was almost like the two were suspended in midair. At almost 2:45 in the morning, with probably the most blood alcohol content he had ever had in his life, with a complete and total stranger that had just paid for his bus fare, Jack felt weightless in the world. All felt right, like everything was the way it was meant to be. Here, in a dark street, with someone he didn't even know yet, drunk beyond any point of return. And it was like everything around him was infinite, as though there was no beginning and no end, no definite points in any dimensional plane of existence. He was free.

And then time began to speed back up, and he was locking lips with the handsome stranger. He couldn't believe it. How had he managed to land that kiss perfectly when he was so plastered he couldn't even see that far ahead of him?

Suddenly every inhibition Jack had about this flooded into his mind. What if Mark was actually only doing this to get into his pants? What if the booze wore off and Mark wasn't the man Jack thought he was? What if this all was a dream?

It felt real. It felt breathtaking and heartbreaking, stolen and given freely, wrong and right, every possible oxymoron in the book was happening right then and there on that dark street corner. It was a combination of every emotion Jack had ever felt in his life prior. It felt like awkward first kisses with his best friend's sister because she had kissed him first and he didn't really know how to react. It felt like lying down in a field reading his first book of poetry and falling in love with the symbolism. It felt like getting the acceptance letter from his first choice of university. It felt like the honeymoon phase of his first relationship, before he ever realized his true sexual identity. It felt like a cold winter night with his first ever boyfriend, sipping on hot chocolate made straight from a package, comparing each other's eyes to random things that neither of them even really knew much about but had only seen in movies or on television. It felt like early morning cuddles when the sun was rising and every color in existence was right there on display in the sky, feeling the warmth of his boyfriend next to him, and falling asleep again because he knew he felt safe.

It felt like this was what was meant to happen.

As soon as Jack realized that Mark wasn't pulling away, he broke the kiss. His face was probably as bright red as a brand new stoplight. He looked right into Mark's eyes and felt himself slowly feel weaker, like he was succumbing to exhaustion. It was frightening to think about how badly he wanted to just pull in and kiss him again. Instead, he tried to free himself from Mark's arms, managing to do so with ease. Jack adjusted his hat (which had almost completely forgotten about at this point in time) as he apologized. "I-I'm sorry, I just-"

"No, no, it's alright. I get it," was the response. Jack knew that he was forgiven, but he still felt bad about it all.

Jack sighed. "I suppose I should tell you, I'm gay," he admitted, making sure to get that out of the way before Mark could form any sort of bond with him, in case he wasn't okay with that.

Mark's expression was blank for a second, then he began chuckling. "What?" Jack asked, genuinely confused. Nobody had ever LAUGHED when he told them that before. Who the fuck did this guy think he was?

"Welcome to the club, buddy," Mark said, in between short laughing fits. "I figured it out when you made the joke about navigating poles. Normally I'M the one making awkward penis jokes." And then he patted Jack on the back, pulling him in for a hug. "I was really worried that you were going to dude-bro your way out of that one, honestly," he said.

Well this was new.

He felt like he should get a medal for discovering the hottest, coolest, funniest gay guy in town before anyone else. At least, Jack was assuming that Mark was single. After all, why else would he have been so eager to talk to Jack at a bus stop at 2:30 in the morning?

Jack smiled and broke the hug, a huge wave of relief crashing over him. "So, you promised you'd walk me home, right?" he asked Mark, who nodded. He then bowed in front of Jack to indicate that he should lead the way. What a dweeb. Jack was glad he'd met him.

As Jack led Mark the rest of the way to his apartment complex, he felt the weight of the world slowly start to drift away. This was a great day, possibly one of the best. How he had gotten lucky enough to meet this guy, Jack would never know. It was insane to think that all because of his drunkenness, he had gotten to meet this guy, kiss him, and have him walk him home. Jack thanked every single drink he had consumed for this opportunity and then promised himself to drink at least once each day to commemorate this event.

And as for Mark, well, he would probably completely forget about this and go on his merry way.

But it was fine. At least Jack would have the memories of kissing the single most amazing person on Earth with him. He still couldn't believe that the night was actually happening. In the span of 20 minutes, Jack had created a lasting bond with this man he barely even knew, if he even knew him at all. And that was not only terrifying, it was exhilarating.

When Jack had stopped walking, he looked over to Mark and said, "Well, this is my stop." They were now in front of Jack's apartment complex, and Jack hated to have to say goodbye.

Mark shook his head. "Surely you're making another drunk pun about being gay, right? I live here."

That's when Jack's eyes felt like they had gone through the sockets. Had this gorgeous, amazing, kindred spirit been living in the same BUILDING AS HIM THE ENTIRE FUCKING TIME?

"Are you fucking kidding me?" asked Jack to himself, but still loud enough for Mark to hear.

And Mark seemed to be feeling the same exasperation as he was, for his rebuttal was simply, "We were living in the same building and never SAW EACH OTHER?" Both of them just stared at each other in complete denial, neither one of them being able to compute the fact that they could've met each other earlier that day, or even earlier that YEAR.

But because Jack was a hermit that barely went outside (it had taken a lot for him to be convinced to even go out with his writer friends, but he would've felt like a douchebag if he refused celebrating his friend's first publishing deal), he had never gotten to see Mark.

The two awkwardly began to walk to the entrance of the complex, Jack stopping to hold the door open for Mark, and then heading to the elevator. "So, uh, what floor do you live on?" asked Mark, refusing to look Jack in the eye, instead looking upward at the light. The elevator shook and shook, but his gaze was unwavering.

"The third floor," Jack answered, his eyes darting everywhere, but mostly focusing on Mark.

"You've got to be shitting me," Mark muttered, under his breath.

"Wait, do we live on the same FLOOR TOO?"

Mark nodded, his eyes maneuvering to his own feet. Jack could sense something was off about him. What it was, he wasn't sure, but there was something more that he was thinking about. He needed to find out. It was bittersweet, ending the night like this. It was like a terrible memory from your childhood that you can't ever seem to forget, but you want to remember because you don't want to get rid of that part of you. It was completely irrational to feel like this about a 20-minute ride home and occasional small talk with a good-looking stranger, but there it was, the beautiful moments of weightlessness and drunkenness and importance in the grand scheme of things burned into his memory like a brandishing on cattle. Some things were easier to forget than others, Jack supposed.

When the elevator doors opened, Jack waited for Mark to exit first, eager to see which apartment he entered. Jack followed closely behind, grabbing his key as he walked in order to get to Apartment 311--his apartment.

Mark stopped at Apartment 312.

Both of them looked at one another, unable to form words. Jack was both angry and confused, and he wasn't really willing to accept the fact that in order to meet him, he literally just could've went to ask if he could borrow a cup of sugar.

"Well, I suppose I'm glad we found out that we were neighbors, I suppose," Mark said, a nervous laugh added onto the end of his sentence. He flashed that winning 'I-just-won-the-Super-Bowl-and-now-I'm-going-to-go-to-Disneyland' smirk again; the smirk that started it all.

Jack nodded and replied, "Yeah, I could say the same. Well, I guess I'll see you later then?"

"Of course. Well, this is goodbye for now, I guess."

Jack watched as Mark opened his door, waved at him one last time, and then entered his apartment before turning the key to his own.

Suddenly, Jack heard Mark's door open again. "Wait, Jack, I almost completely forgot. Can I ask for your number?" Mark asked, walking back over to Jack. The question made his heart flutter, but what made it flutter even more was when Mark grabbed his phone from his pocket and handed it to him. Jack smiled as he found Mark's contact list and added himself, taking a picture of himself to add to the data, even though he was 100% sure he looked like complete and utter shit. Mark smiled when Jack handed his phone back to him.

"Before I forget, can you put your number into my phone, too?"

Mark happily obliged.

"Call me when you finish that poem you're gonna write, okay?" he asked Jack, making the universal motion for "call me" with his free hand, the other on his doorknob. Jack smiled and gave him the thumbs up sign in response. "Alright then. I expect to hear from you soon. You better read the entirety of that poem to me over the phone. Until then, I'll be waiting."

And that's when Mark shut his door and Jack shut his. He began to walk to his desk, when suddenly he felt his phone buzz.

He grabbed his phone and looked at the message. It was Mark. "I can't wait to hear the poem :/" it read.

What a fucking nerd.


	2. 4 In The Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack finally finishes his poem, but when he calls Mark, he gets more than he bargained for.

Jack didn't even feel the effects of the booze anymore. It was as though seeing Mark was an instant sobriety. Mark was a strange man, and Jack knew that perfectly well. To think that all this time, all Jack had to do to meet him was just walk over to the next apartment...

His brain was abuzz with inspiration for his next poem. Maybe this whole neighbors thing would be a great thing for his poetry. Maybe Mark could be inspired to write some music of his own. Maybe this would end up in a relationship between the two of them. (Jack desperately hoped that there would be some form of relationship with Mark later in his future, even if it was strictly platonic. Mark was a good influence on him and his work, there was no denying it.)

He didn't even pay any attention to the time. He didn't care that his vision was beginning to narrow and narrow. He just knew that he HAD to finish this poem, otherwise his inspiration would be completely lost. After all, there would never be another night like that again. Not for him or Mark or ANYONE else. That night was a once in a lifetime opportunity and he knew better than to let it completely go to waste. Mark was a once in a lifetime thing. And this was something that Jack clearly couldn't ignore. He had to write about this. It was eating away at him and if he didn't write about it, it would haunt him for the rest of his life.

It was about 4 in the morning when Jack finally set down his pen.

The metaphors he had used were some of the most beautiful things he had ever thought up. He had simply titled the poem "Mark", because that's all it was about. Well, not exactly. It was mostly about the kiss and how compared to all divine accidents, it was the most divine and the most accidental of them all, but that didn't really matter much because the kiss was only so due to Mark's presence in it.

He then remembered that Mark had wanted to hear his poem.

He was probably asleep, and he wouldn't pick up the phone, but Jack decided to take a chance and call him anyway. He found Mark's contact, goofy picture and all (even when he was trying to make an unattractive face, he was still undeniably good-looking, which not only made Jack happy, but pissed him the fuck off) and called him.

It only took one ring for Mark to pick up.

"Hello?" his voice rang, even more gruff and deep than Jack originally remembered. Jack hated it.

"Uh... hi. You said you wanted to hear my poem when I was finished with it, and that you couldn't wait to hear it, so... I finished it," Jack said, trying not to let on that he was nervous for Mark to hear it. He was excited for Mark's reaction, but at the same time, he worried that he would think it was creepy and stop talking to him. This was what real struggle felt like.

Mark's voice suddenly perked up. "Really?! Read it to me!" He sounded like a giddy child on Christmas morning, waking up his parents to see what new things were in store for him. Jack felt his heart fluttering at how genuine Mark's excitement was. He was so kind and sweet, and Jack was still wondering how in the fuck he had ever managed to stumble upon this amazing person at 2:30 in the morning whilst completely and totally tipsy-turvy.

It wasn't a particularly long poem, in all honesty. The thing Jack had really wanted to focus on rather than the length of the poem itself was the symbolism. It was meant to be a short poem, but a particularly deep one. Emotions were a very hard construct for Jack to carry out on paper, even in his poetry, but this poem was one of, if not, his best. And Mark would get to hear his masterpiece.

But he told Mark a different title than the one he had used. He used the name of an ex-boyfriend he had back in Ireland. An ex he still was friends with and communicated with via Skype every now and again. How weird would Mark have thought he was if he recited his feelings through a poem and named it after him? How weird would Mark have thought he was if he was telling him how amazing that kiss was, even though it had been with a complete stranger? Jack couldn't risk it. Mark was too important to let go of, and he knew that perfectly well. Mark was a great person and Jack deserved to have a little sunshine in his life, if only for a short while. Jack had seen too many nights alone with nothing but alcohol and no amazing strangers to guide him home. If nothing else, Mark could at least be an acquaintance. Nothing more, nothing less. Jack couldn't believe that he was spurting off these thoughts over someone he had literally just met no more than an hour and a half ago, but here he was, reading him poetry at 4 in the morning, having a crisis about how he felt about him, and even wondering if maybe the words he wrote would make a good song. He wanted to scream and laugh at the same time, but he couldn't, because he was fairly certain he would wake up everyone in the building if he did that.

As he kept reading the poem, he felt his eyelids getting heavier and heavier, but he had to keep his eyes open. Mark wanted to hear a poem, dammit, and he was going to get a poem.

He was a very good listener. He didn't interrupt him or ask him why he used the words he did. He was just very pleasant to read to. Jack wished that Mark was there with him so he could see his face as he heard every metaphor, and see his eyes as he processed each word. He could just tell that Mark was there reacting to the words and immersing himself into the feeling of each stanza.

Jack missed him already.

Once Jack had finished reading the poem, Mark was silent for a split second before saying, "Holy hell. That was really... really good!" He just seemed fascinated, which made Jack's heart lift a little. It was great hearing someone so passionate about artistic expression telling him that his work was amazing. Getting that approval was a big confidence boost for him.

Mark's voice still held the same fascination in it as he kept talking. "That would be a great song. I might be able to come up with a tune... JACK! This is it! Holy shit!" And he began laughing with heavy breath. Jack could just see him walking around his apartment in shock. "YOU could write music for me! Fuck, why didn't I think of that SOONER?" He let out a small chuckle and then a sigh. "Oh my God, Jack. We could work together. I... that was so fucking AMAZING! And with the right tune and instruments, and if I could learn to play piano and guitar or something, we could actually..."

A part of Jack was excited, but another part of him was telling him to run away from this idea as soon as possible. The idea of Mark singing Jack's feelings for the world to hear was scary. He couldn't imagine any other person doing it, but at the same time, it was scary as all hell. What would the world think of them? What if people actually liked the song? Then what?

Jack couldn't bear to think of the what.

"Mark, that would be great, but..." Jack's brain was reeling. He wanted nothing more than to just share his poems with Mark. He didn't care if anyone else cared about them, all he wanted was just for Mark to hear them. But if this was what Mark thought would be best, Jack couldn't simply ignore the idea completely. Jack really did entertain the idea of being a songwriter for Mark, but at the same time, there was nothing scarier than having to write something FOR another person. He wasn't sure if he could keep up the inspiration.

"Oh, yeah, I completely understand what you must be thinking right now, Jack... something so personal would be wrong to share... never mind, my idea was stupid, I was just..." Mark's voice was much smaller than before. He sounded much more reserved. Almost like a child who had just gotten yelled at for constantly trying to get the attention of their parents. Jack felt terrible for even wanting to reject the idea. Mark was so happy about it. Maybe it wasn't all completely horrible... And the only way to get his work noticed was to put it out there in every way he possibly could, and with Mark's talent, who knows who might hear the message? The thought of the audience he could possibly get was not only scary, but exciting. Exhilarating. It sent a heavy dose of adrenaline coursing through his veins. It was amazing to think of the possibilities that could open up for the both of them if Jack decided to agree to this offer.

Plus, more time spent with Mark would always be a bonus.

He flipped a coin mentally. Heads, he would say no. Tails, he was on board. He wondered what part of his subconscious would dominate this time. He closed his eyes and counted to three. The first thought that popped into his head would be the one he was going with.

Deep breath.

One... two... three...

"Let's make music," Jack said, letting out his breath. It felt strange to say it. It felt kind of like ripping off a Band-Aid. It somehow was relieving just to say it and get it over with. Hopefully this decision wouldn't come back to haunt him later. But Jack supposed he only had one life to live, and he might as well do SOMETHING with it. If it just happened to be songwriting with someone he had just met who just so happened to be his neighbor, then so be it.

It was his life, and dammit, he was going to live it.

Mark let out a sigh full of shock and happiness and every kind of emotion. "R...Really???" he asked, again with the giddiness of his voice returning. What a nerd. Good thing he was adorable.

"Sure, why the hell not? I mean... YOLO, right?" Jack said. He was fairly certain he didn't pronounce that correctly at all, but it wasn't exactly like he was hip with the times anyway. Surely Mark would understand that Jack wasn't big on the slang of today. He did have an affinity for The Lonely Island, and he was fairly up-to-date on most of the slang, but he never really used it. He just didn't really feel like using it much.

Mark probably had the goofiest grin on his face. Jack wished he could see it. "Thaaaaaaat's fucking AWESOMEEEE!" he exclaimed, his voice's pitch increasing. Jack was surprised at how shrill Mark's voice could be.

"So, I'll save up to learn to play guitar and you'll keep writing, right?" he asked.

Jack must've said yes about a thousand times.  
\--------------------  
They had agreed to meet up again at Mark's the next day. Jack had barely slept thinking about everything that had happened within that two-and-a-half hour span. Not only had he made a friend, but he had made a business decision. He had written a poem he was very proud of, and he had formed a crush. (Yes, he had a crush on Mark. It was impossible not to, after all.)

Everything was coming up Jackaboy.

When Jack woke up, it was about 10:00, maybe a few minutes early. He didn't care. He just knew that he had to get to Mark's. Unless Mark was asleep.

He called Mark's phone. It took three rings for Mark to pick up. "Hello?" he asked, his voice the same gruff, gravelly tone it had been when he answered the first time last night. He must have fallen asleep waiting and been woken up by the call.

"Hey, it's Jack. I just woke up. Uh, I'll give you some time to get up and get ready before I come over," Jack said, as he struggled to find a box of cereal he was craving at that particular instant in time.

"Oh, no, don't worry about it, I just need to get dressed. It'll take maybe two or three minutes, tops?" From the sounds muffled in the call, Mark was already moving and starting to get ready.

Jack had a KILLER headache. He supposed maybe Mark wasn't the cure-all for a hangover, but for the amount of alcohol he had ingested, he was feeling relatively splendid, all things considering. (Except for the headache. It felt like Satan himself was conducting an orchestra inside of his skull.) Jack walked into his bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet in order to find something to get rid of Beethoven's 5th, Live from Hell, then went back to the kitchen. "Uh, sure. I was going to give you time to have breakfast or something first, but... alright, I guess?"

"No no no no no, we can head out and get something, or I can just make pancakes here," Mark replied. The noises were still muffled relatively, which meant that as they spoke, Mark was getting dressed.

Jack figured he should slap himself for thinking about what he was thinking about.

He fished around in his pocket to find his wallet and check to see how much money he could spend and still be able to afford bills that month. Being a deadbeat poet was the life, he had to say. Barely being able to scrape by without getting at least one bill paid late, working a terribly boring job being a waiter at a diner (which he thanked God he wasn't scheduled to work today), living off of ramen noodles. Ah, yes, Jack was truly the sophisticated gentleman. He could almost TASTE the sarcasm as he thought about it all.

"Uh, can you whip something up? I'm a little short on cash at the moment," Jack admitted, sitting down on his couch. He wasn't going to be able to pay the rent again. Oh well. He could make it up once he got his paycheck at the end of next week. No big deal.

The muffled sound had stopped. "Yeah, can do. Trust me, Jack. Mark's got ya covered. You can come over whenever you want, but if you come soon, don't expect food."

Jack didn't care if food wouldn't be immediately ready for him. He wanted to see Mark again. He had already begun missing him, and he didn't even really have a clear depiction of him anyway. Beer goggles could do that to a person.

"I don't care, I'm already out the door," Jack said, and half of it was true. He had been out the door, until he realized he had forgotten his writing stuff. His lucky pen, his notepad, and his laptop (because he was a classy modern man in a classy modern world).

Mark let out a small chuckle and said, "Alright. Then, I guess I'll hang up. See you soon." 

It was too late, because Jack was already at the door. He was still on the phone, holding it in one hand as he knocked on Mark's door with the other. It didn't take long for him to answer it. "See you now," Jack retorted, then hanging up his phone.

Mark was just as handsome as he had been the night prior, if not even more so. Now that he had a clear depiction of his face, he was quite the dashing guy. He lived up to the expectations and even slightly exceeded them. The headache in his head was still pounding, but it felt less pronounced than before. Maybe he was a type of cure-all.

However, the current face he was making at Jack's cheesy one-liner was akin to that of his face after finding out that they were neighbors: the only possible way Jack could describe the face was "bitch, please". "Wow, that was a good one, every romantic-comedy male lead ever." Damn, the sarcasm in his voice was so thick Jack could cut it with a knife.

He imitated the reaction to being burned by a hot stovetop and replied, "Ouch, I think I just got severely burned. You have anything to treat a burn of such a degree?" The smile on Mark's face pretty much said everything. Jack began laughing as he asked, "Can you let me in so the rest of the neighbors don't have to hear my shame at having been burned so badly?"

Mark's laughter was pretty hard as he signaled for Jack to enter the apartment.

"Well, your pancakes might be burning right now, and honestly, it's all your fault."

Jack didn't even care about the stupid pancakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus concludes Chapter Two of A Man Like A Black Hole! Hope you guys enjoyed this, and let me know if you want more!


	3. The Sassmaster Has Fallen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Mark and Jack begin work on some music, Jack suddenly remembers that he hasn't quite erased the first drafts of his first poem, or the title. Can he save himself from embarrassment?

Jack couldn't help but watch Mark dart around the kitchen as he prepared breakfast for them both. His movements were fast, but barely clumsy, and he hummed as he kept moving around. Mark was like a hummingbird, moving too fast to see clearly, but still completely and totally beautiful and amazing to not watch. There was nothing that Mark couldn't be described with in metaphor. His entire being was not only paradoxical, but also unpredictable and exciting. How could Jack put it...? Mark was unending. Infinite. His personality just kept multiplying.

Mark turned to face Jack after putting more mix in the pan with a small grimace on his face. "Well, the pancakes aren't TOO badly burned, so I guess that's good, but I'm still blaming you for that."

Jack couldn't help but break into a small laugh. "Not my fault you were too busy being a sarcastic prick to be bothered to make decent pancakes," he retorted, with a big goofy smile on his face. Mark turned away from his pancakes with an overly-dramatic scowl on his face, and he began shaking his fist at Jack. Jack snapped his fingers back at him and said, "Hey, pay attention to the pancakes! We don't want more of them to end up like charcoal because of you." Mark began laughing and turned back around to look at the pancakes. He could still hear him chuckling under his breath as he kept flipping.

Jack had never realized just how sassy he could be sometimes.

"You shut it, Sassy Sue. I don't need your lip. At least I'M being a productive member of society and making breakfast for us BOTH," Mark jeered, prompting Jack to clutch his heart as if he had just been shot.

"Oh, that one really got me Mark. I think you might need to call a WAH-mbulance."

That response got an eye roll from Mark and a slight shake of the head. Jack chuckled as Mark turned back to face his pancakes. He was still smiling. How had Jack been able to meet someone whose wit matched his own? How had he been able to find someone who could actually hold a good conversation and joke around without it being boring? WHO WAS THIS MAN AND WHERE COULD JACK EVER FIND ANOTHER ONE LIKE HIM?

He turned on Mark's TV (which was surprisingly not as big as his own used to be, before he had to sell it in order to pay rent one year) and flipped through different channels, in search of something that would create the perfect background noise. The news was too boring, sitcoms had too many voices and too much out-of-place laughter, dramas weren't enough, soap operas had too much cheesy dialogue... and there were no good music channels that Jack could think of. He didn't even know if there WERE such things as music channels anymore. It had been a couple years since he'd sold his TV.

Jack just scrolled until he reached a channel that was playing an old Whose Line Is It Anyway? rerun. He liked the show. Improv was always a great way to unwind, especially the Scenes From A Hat. He wouldn't be paying much attention to the show with Mark in his presence, but he could still appreciate it's presence. "I see you're trying to research for better sarcastic comebacks," Mark said, turning with a large plate full of pancakes in hand.

"Maybe," Jack replied, elongating the syllables. "Or maybe I just have an appreciation for the art of comedy. But sure, you can try to make yourself feel better all you want. I'll let you think you won this one." Mark sat down at the small table in his kitchen and made the motion with his finger that beckoned Jack to come to where he was. Jack got off of the couch and shut off the TV, not wanting to run up any of Mark's expenses. He didn't want to be a nuisance. Mark was already making him breakfast, he may as well do his best not to become even more of a hassle.

As he sat down, he grabbed a plate that Mark had set down earlier and took a few pancakes from the stack. Mark smirked and handed Jack the maple syrup. "You may have won this battle, you drunk leperchaun, but you haven't won the war."

"Bring it on, you creepy bus-stop lurker," Jack replied. That one was a bit shaky.

Mark pumped his fist in victory at having come up with the best nickname. "Whatever, I'll let you have that one. Your victory won't last long, Mark." Jack finished pouring his maple syrup and set it back where Mark had once put it. "Now if you'll quit yapping, I'll taste your delicious burnt pancakes."

They weren't bad at all, even if they were a little darker than normal.

"So? Are they every bit as dreamy and delicious as you hoped they would be?" asked Mark.

Jack nodded, unable to answer verbally due to having a mouth full of pancakes. Mark smiled. "Good. I'm glad you like them. After all, it's your fault some of them are almost black. But if you're content with the quality, I'll put that aside." Jack rolled his eyes. He was NOT going to let this burnt pancakes thing go. Maybe Jack would have to threaten not to write some music for him if he kept it up. After all, it wasn't his ENTIRE fault. Mark was the one who should've been paying attention to their breakfast.

There was a weird but comfortable silence in the apartment after that. It felt out of place, yet it felt completely genuine. It was something that Jack had never experienced. Then again, with Mark, there were a lot of firsts coming into play. (He really didn't want to think too deeply into the context of that statement.) It felt wrong for everything to be quiet, but it also felt natural, like it was an everyday occurrence.

And there would never be another moment like this one.

Inspiration was always the weirdest thing.  
\--------------------  
Jack didn't even recognize some of the drafts he had stashed in his notebook. He had some that had been hidden since he had first began writing poetry, and some from a week ago. He didn't even know some of the poems he found in there. Some of them didn't even have his handwriting on them. Were they from other people? Friends? Past boyfriends? He didn't care.

He was sure that he had put last night's poem in with the others. But where the hell could it be? He kept thumbing through the countless pages, searching for the word Mark...

Oh shit. He had forgotten to erase the title of the poem on the page.

He felt like crawling into a hole and dying. Why hadn't he remembered to erase the name? What would Mark think upon finding out that the romantic, sappy shit he had written was actually about him? Jack could almost hear Simon and Garfunkel in his head, singing "Hello darkness, my old friend..."

But maybe he could save this.

"Uh, hey Mark, can I use your bathroom?" he asked. As Mark gave him directions, he slipped the piece of paper the poem was written on and a pencil into his pocket. He thanked every deity he could remember the name of that Mark hadn't been paying that close attention to him.

When he got into the bathroom, he sat down and pulled the poem out of his pocket, as well as the pencil.

He hadn't realized he'd picked the pencil with the almost nonexistent eraser.

"Shit," he whispered to himself. Maybe he could scribble it out? But would that be suspicious? Oh God, there were too many questions floating around in his head. He needed to act fast, because the only thing that was more suspicious than a terribly scribbled out name on a piece of paper was someone spending too much time in the bathroom.

He didn't have time to think. He needed to act. So he scribbled out the top of the page furiously, wrote the name of his ex above it, and hoped and prayed that Mark wouldn't ask questions.  
\--------------------  


"Alright, are we going to start then?" Mark asked, as Jack got settled down. He had managed to stick the poem back into his notebook while Mark had his back turned, which was good.

"Yeah, yeah. You want to start work on a separate poem or do you want to look at the one I wrote last night?" Jack asked him. He really just wished that he didn't have to show him the poem anyway, because for some reason, he was feeling very self-conscious about his handwriting.

Mark pondered it a bit before answering, "I was hoping I could get a look at the one you wrote last night. Hearing it was really great, but I want to read it."

Jack inhaled really loudly before handing the paper over to Mark. Please don't question it, please don't question it, please don't question it...

There was complete and total silence as Mark's eyes darted over the words of the poem. Jack could get lost in watching his eyes move as they kept reading along. He was completely spellbound by the rapid changes in color and emotion they brought as they got to specific areas on the page. It was fascinating how much a single pair of eyes could change, and how equally beautiful all of those changes could be. Jack had never experienced something like that before. It was the small details that Jack appreciated the most, as a poet, it was his job to document them. He was so glad that he had met him, otherwise he may never have found out how indescribably perfect one person's eyes could possibly be.

Finally, Mark's eyes met Jack's, and he set the paper down on the coffee table. Jack, still in a stupor from those eyes, didn't even realize that they were right in front of him. "Holy shit, you've got a really amazing talent," Mark said, with a fascinated smile on his face. Jack loved the look on people's faces when they found out that he could write poetry.

"Thanks, I guess. I'm not really THAT good, but I suppose I'm not terrible. Do you think that's song potential?" he asked.

Mark nodded. "Yeah, the rhyme scheme works, it kind of fits to a beat... it has a lot of potential. I'll see if I can find a melody... Oh shit, where'd I put my guitar?" He searched around the floor for a guitar case. Jack found himself scouring the floor as well. He wondered if maybe he could find it for him. Perhaps a heroic venture to find his guitar would result in a kiss for the brave knight?

Okay, so Jack really just wanted to kiss Mark again.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys liked this chapter! Next chapter will probably be more of a part two to this chapter than a separate chapter of it's own, but either way, I hope you like it! Thanks for reading, and have a great day and a great life! <3


	4. Video Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When both of them start looking for Mark's guitar in order to start working on their song, they end up getting distracted by Mark's collection of video games.

"Well, I guess this is going to be a wild goose chase with your guitar, isn't it?" Jack asked. He smiled at Mark, who in return, smiled back and let out a small sigh. He was a little embarrassed, as evident in the blush on his cheeks. He was such a dork, but that was one of the best things about him. It was refreshing to Jack that this seemingly ethereal person was also so completely and totally normal.

Mark let out another sigh and dropped the arm that had once been running through his hair (which Jack affectionately called "the floof"). "Uh, yeah, I guess so. Shall we start looking for it then?"

Jack nodded, bowing, hoping Mark would take his move as an indication to lead the way to where he thought his guitar might be.

And he did.

He led Jack through the door attached to his living room and into his bedroom. Jack felt a small blush creep onto his face, which he felt completely and totally ashamed of for having. There were lots of various things scattered about in Mark's room. He was kind of messy, Jack noticed. There were notebooks in random places on the floor, the occasional stray sock or shirt, and some other random objects. No guitar-shaped ones, however.

And that's when Jack noticed the computer sitting at Mark's desk.

Now, normally, Jack wouldn't find a computer to be very interesting, but he was particularly intrigued when he noticed that the page it had been left on was Steam, and there were too many games to count on the screen.

He LOVED video games. Almost to the point where he considered working as a writer for video game scripts other than being a poet. Every chance he got, he would play video games, and he was such a big fan of them. He couldn't remember the last time he played a video game that he didn't like in at least some regard. Even the flash games he found while searching randomly on his computer he found interesting. The stories that video games could weave were some of the most impressive Jack had ever stumbled across in his entire life. There were so many little things that could completely change the way a game's story played out, and that was the most interesting thing. It felt like he was actually important in how the ending of the game turned out. What choices he made would actually affect the characters' feelings and actions, even if they weren't exactly real.

Mark was still searching through a closet for his guitar, while Jack read through the games he could see from Mark's desktop. Perhaps Mark had been immersed in a video game when he called him earlier that morning, and that's what took him a little while to answer?

"Uh, Jack?" Mark called, his voice echoed from the walls of the closet. Jack spun around in his place, in order to be facing the direction of the sound, and he chuckled when he found his eyes landing immediately on Mark's butt. He looked away and towards "the floof" instead, hoping that Mark didn't have a "sixth sense" and figure out that Jack had even glanced there. "Do you think you could actually HELP me and look for my guitar instead of be a creep on my video game collection?"

Shit, Jack thought. So Mark DID have a sixth sense.

Jack nodded as he turned to scour the entire room. "Welp, I've searched every single part of this room and there is no indication of a guitar anywhere," he said, returning his gaze back to Mark.

Mark groaned as he straightened his back, returning from bending down to search the floor of the closet. "Well, dammit," he said, turning then to face Jack. "I guess it's gone forever. Oh well. If I find it again, I'll call you."

Jack took this as meaning that Mark was basically kicking him out of his apartment. Dammit, out of all the things that would have ended up making it so Mark wouldn't want to talk to him again, the fact that he was simply looking at video games was it? Not the gay joke? Or the mooching off of him for pancakes? Or the terrible poem? Or the fact that they were NEIGHBORS?

He began to walk out of Mark's room, grabbing the notebook full of his poems from off of the coffee table in the living room when he passed, and he headed for the door. He didn't even hear Mark's footsteps following him.

Suddenly, Jack felt a hand on his shoulder, turning him around. Mark had turned Jack to face him, as he said, "Wait, Jack, I didn't mean..."

His voice trailed off when Jack finally met his gaze. It was so strange, all of the things that Jack had been thinking about since 2:30 AM. He had thought about how awesome it would be to run his hands through "the floof". He had thought about Mark waking up to see him writing a poem, and getting frustrated because the words didn't sound right, and Mark hugging him as he sat, telling him that everything would be okay, and that it was way too early, and him dragging Jack to bed. He had thought about how perfect that kiss had been when he somehow managed to perfectly land it, even though his coordination had been completely thrown off, and he had never even been thinking about kissing him at that exact moment in time. He had thought about walking over to Mark's door, knocking, and being greeted with a quick kiss. He had thought about so many things that were next to impossible.

And right then, staring into Mark's eyes, with his hand on Jack's shoulder, those things seemed VERY possible.

It was as if Mark was thinking about those things too, from the way he kept staring at Jack. Something was either very wrong or very right, and unfortunately, Jack wasn't the best at telling which one it was. But standing there, hearing the echo of Mark's voice replaying over and over in his head, it was strangely sweet, in a way. Like... maybe this was what it would be like if they actually were together, this same feeling of butterflies in the air and in their stomachs, the warm feeling of your favorite blanket, the smiles and laughter and banter about who was sassier.

"Sorry, I..." Jack began, but his voice trailed away as well, unable to come up with something to say. He wasn't exactly sure what he had been thinking when he was walking towards that door. His notebook was still in his hand, even though his grasp on it was actually pretty loose. He could tell that he was blushing--he felt like his entire face was burning from a light from within.

Mark cleared his throat, gently moving his hand away from Jack's shoulder. "No, it's fine, I shouldn't have been so snappy at you. Uh, since you seem to like video games, do you want to stay and play a couple co-op rounds with me?" he asked.

While the atmosphere of the staring contest kind of fell, and a little piece of Jack felt like he had been denied something, the rest of him was practically glowing at the thought of getting to spend more time with Mark. That moment was completely amazing, but so was the fact that Mark was letting him stay and play video games with him.

Before Mark could even say another word, Jack ran past him and into his bedroom. "HELL YEAH LET'S PLAY SOME GAMES!" he yelled as he ran. His muscles hurt from smiling so much. He felt like a little kid. He sat down in the chair that Mark had already set in front of the monitor, and soon enough, Mark came in with a chair he had brought from the kitchen as well. Once Mark got sat down next to him, Jack smiled at him again and asked, "What game do you have in mind?"

Mark smirked and took control of the keyboard. "Oh, I think I have a game we could play," he said, deviously.

Half of Jack was completely terrified, the other half was intrigued by what the hell Mark was possibly thinking.

Finally, Mark clicked on a game, and the screen popped up.

"Oh fucking hell," Jack mumbled. It was that dumb series of games he'd heard his friends talking about nonstop, that apparently had a great story but was full of cheap jumpscares. It was Five Nights At Freddy's. The fourth one. Jack had never really been one for horror games or anything of the like, but then again, it was Mark asking him to play it, and well, he was kind of a good friend of his, so...

"Come on, you know you want to play it," Mark said, with a smirk on his face. Jack rolled his eyes.

"Not really, but since you asked me SOOOOO nicely," he made sure to make that particularly sarcastic, "I suppose I'll give it a shot. If I end up having a heart attack, I'll come back as a ghost and haunt you for making me do this." He scooted his chair up to the computer and took reign of the keyboard and mouse. "So, Mark, fill me in on the story behind this Chuck E. Cheese hell game."

Mark's grin only widened after Jack asked him to tell him the lore.

\--------------------

Jack had to admit, Mark was a damn good storyteller. He used very descriptive words, made simple sentences such as "the animatronics started oozing blood and mucus from their eyes and mouths" sound so creepy they sent a shiver down Jack's spine, and his theories were actually very compelling and well thought out. His attention to detail was fascinating. Jack could've spent forever just listening to Mark tell him stories. It was soothing in a way, despite the material he was talking about.

While Jack was listening to Mark talk, he started playing the game. Mark stopped in the middle of a theory in order to pay attention to what was going on on-screen. "This is going to be good," he said, smirking. "I should've brought popcorn."

"Yeah, well you should've also brought a spare pair of pants because jumpscares don't sit well with me," Jack replied. He was already sweating, and he hadn't even started the first night.

The first hour or two went by fast--he hadn't gotten to any conflict, really. He had occasionally gotten scared by the sight of one of the animatronic abominations scuttling away at the sight of the light, but nothing too major. He hadn't heard any of the breathing that the game had warned him about so carefully. He was starting to feel a lot better, now that he hadn't been completely terrified. He was actually sort of calm, which not only seemed to surprise Mark, given the look on his face, but it surprised Jack as well.

After that, however, when Jack scuttled over to the right door, he listened carefully, heard almost nothing, and then flashed his light, only to be jumped by Chica. He let out a loud scream and almost flew out of his chair.

"JESUS HOT SAUCE CHRISTMAS CAKE!" yelled Jack, unaware of what had just came out of his mouth.

Mark looked at him, bewildered, for a split second before bursting into laughter. "What the fuck did you just SAY?" he asked, barely tangible through his laughter. Jack finally felt as though he returned to normal and looked to Mark, who had (somewhat miraculously) managed to stay on his chair despite his unruly laugh fit.

"S-Shut UP!" he muttered, feeling a nervous sweat break onto his forehead and his palms. His face felt a little more hot than normal, and his voice cracked as he spoke. He tried to maintain the smile on his face, but he was having a hard time after the demon duck had ceremoniously fucked his shit up. "I wasn't expecting that, okay? I had every reason to be startled. And let's be real, you don't exactly keep your sense of proper English whenever you're in a panic either, ya fuckin' goofball."

Mark's laughter by this point had subsided, save for the occasional chuckle here and there. But the smile on his face was still in full effect, and it was quite possibly one of the most amazing smiles that Jack had ever seen.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It's alright, it was hilarious, so don't even worry about it."

Jack thought back to what he had said, and in hindsight, he had to agree. "I guess it was. But I'm still fuckin' pissed at ya for even SUGGESTING that we play this game."

Here they were, both he and Mark, after the whole "drunken kiss at three in the morning" ordeal, having just met that very same morning... and they were together, playing a video game, acting like they had been friends for a long time. Jack was both pleasantly surprised and very confused by how Mark had taken all of this. How he wanted to remain friendly with someone that was completely shitfaced at the time of their meeting, how he had managed to keep his cool after being kissed by a drunken stranger, and how even despite everything, he was still being a good friend to him, quite possibly one of the best friends Jack had ever had. He wondered what it was like to be able to do that--let people that he barely knew into his life and take everything in stride. He kind of looked up to him for being able to dismiss things that happened and not linger on certain things.

Jack could never do that.

For Jack, he had never had the capacity to simply allow things to blow over. He always managed to remember, and he always managed to get choked up at the mention of anything that he remembered that he didn't like. Many people that he had met in his life had fallen into three categories--those that treated him well enough to be recurring people in his life (but generally not close enough for him to consider as being a friend to him, since he tended to keep to himself in the constant fear that they would desert him as soon as he admitted to something they didn't like), those that he had met briefly and considered neither a friend nor an enemy, and those that had been an asshole to him and caused his paranoia (as most of the time, especially as he began to develop his views on social aspects of the world as a preteen up until about the age of 16, he had allowed them into his world and told them some of his darkest secrets, only for them to exploit them or reject him due to them not wanting anything to do with these secrets, or at least, this is what Jack assumed was the reasoning behind their cessation of friendship).

But Mark was somehow an anomaly in the system. He felt... like someone who was ACTUALLY a friend. Not just someone that was "close enough". But there was another reason why Mark hadn't seemed to fit in any of his categories.

And that reason was the huge, blatant crush that Jack had quickly formed on him.

Mark's smile was still ever-present in his eyes. "Fine, fine, if you're going to be such a whiner about it, we can play something different. Since you're clearly not as pro as I am."

"Oh WHATEVER," Jack groaned. "You fuckin' WISH you could be as awesome as I am. I was just startled, for Pete's sake!"

"What do you suggest we play, oh amazing video game god? Might I suggest Pretty Pretty Princess Dress Up? It might be a little too intense for you, though, but I think that you should be able to get through it better than you did FNaF 4."

"Shut yer trap! I'll let you choose something. And whatever the hell it is, if it involves creepy robot animals from Hell, YOU'RE playing it."

Mark rolled his eyes and then returned to choosing the game for them to play. For some odd reason, Jack felt like he could trust Mark's decision.

In fact, he was almost excited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, and if you did, please leave a comment, it means so much to me to see your feedback! Thanks for reading!  
> Until the next chapter,  
> -Bree


	5. Pages of Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mark's guitar is found and Jack reminisces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very sorry that the chapter is so short, but I got a particularly nasty case of writer's block on this one! I really hope you enjoy it anyway!

Jack felt like there was something else missing.

He wasn't exactly sure what it was, but he could feel like there was a big part of this missing.

He wondered what it could be. Maybe it was just... just the fact that he wasn't at home. He should've felt more comfortable around Mark. He knew that it wasn't Mark's fault, but... he couldn't quite place his finger on what was making him feel weird.

"Uh, if we weren't supposed to actually be doing something, I might have been happy to play video games with you all day, but we're kinda supposed to be finding your guitar right now?" Jack said, with a nervous smile. Mark was still searching for a game for the two of them to play, but he turned around to look at Jack. There was a small pause of silence between the two before Mark seemed to finally hear what he had said.

"Oh! Yeah! Whoops, sorry!" He giggled a little, shutting down his computer. "Uh, I get distracted pretty easily. Sorry, again."

Jack shook his head. He understood. He himself got distracted rather easily as well, so he couldn't exactly blame Mark for it, either.

He stuck out a hand, as if to help Mark get up from the chair, but Mark didn't take it. Jack cursed himself for doing that. Why had he done that? He knew Mark could get up on his own. How awkward could he possibly be?

Mark shrugged. "Well, I'm pretty sure that my guitar isn't in here, so... we might as well get out of this room and search elsewhere. It wouldn't hurt, would it?"

He walked out of the room and Jack followed him, with a bit of a twinkle in his eyes. He wasn't sure what he had done to deserve a friend as genuine and good as Mark, or why Mark kept wanting to hang out with him. In his own opinion, Jack wasn't that much of an interesting guy. He was a writer, sure, but really, he didn't think that made him stick out more than anyone else. He was just a simple dude trying to live a simple life scraping by.

And now here he was, with this extraordinary, amazing, larger-than-life person. He felt that much more amazing for even knowing Mark's name, but now here he was, with Mark, and he was talking to him, and they were spending more time together, and... He couldn't believe that he was even getting a second chance after flubbing it up so royally when he managed to kiss him due to sheer happenstance. Something about their situation felt oddly like deja vu, like he had been there before, or at the very least like he was meant to be there. His heart felt like it was beating a mile a minute. It was so strange that he felt like this. What the hell was even HAPPENING to him? Sure, he knew that he had a tiny crush on Mark, but he had never known that a small crush could do that much. If this was what small crushes should always feel like, then Jack had been going about things all wrong.

He continued to follow Mark, still wondering about everything. He was most unlike other people in that when he thought, he thought deeply and he thought concisely. He was deeply analytical. Jack admired that about himself, even though right now, all it felt like was a simple distraction from the task at hand. At least he could think.

Mark stopped, and Jack almost bumped into the back of him because he was so lost in thought.

"Whoa. You okay, buddy?" Mark asked him, giving a chuckle.

Jack nodded, trying to shake the haze of pointless hypotheticals from his brain. "Y-Yeah, sorry. Just... got distracted. Y'know."

"Uh huhhhh," Mark replied, as if he didn't buy the excuse. Jack muttered a simple "dammit" under his breath. "So," he continued, moving on from the awkward topic of conversation, "about that guitar... If I were a guitar, where would I hide..."

"If you were a guitar? What the fuck..." Jack mumbled again. He had always wondered why people said that whenever they were searching for things. It was really dumb and pointless.

Mark shrugged in response. "Hey. You gotta think like the guitar, right? That way, you know where it would want to be. And then, there you have it."

He still didn't get why people said that.

Mark began to hum to himself as he kept searching, leaving Jack in the living room. Jack, finally alone with his thoughts, began to read through his notebook and relive all of his old poetry.

First page -- "For Brigit". Oh God, he remembered this one. Back from when he was still trying to deny that he had no interest in females. Back when he was still working things out within himself. Jesus, how long had he KEPT this notebook? This poem had to have been from at least 10 years ago. He was glad that it was still in such amazing condition.

Good Lord, he had really tried to stretch the limits of the rhyme scheme, hadn't he.

Second page -- "Foggy". This one was written when he was 16, at the time that he had finally started trying to figure out his identity. Of course, foggy was the word he used to describe his thoughts. His thoughts at the time were full of "wow that guy was cute" and "why the hell do I think guys are cute" and "I'm not gay" and... and...

Third page -- "Color". Written at the same time as "Foggy", he remembered. He had written it to ponder whether or not he was homosexual or not. He had written it as a kind of hypothetical.

"But if I were, what would happen?  
Would there be nothing but agony in store for me?  
Would there be a happy, accepting, gracious community?  
Would there be color?"

He had to admit that he really liked this one.

He got bored of the others and began to skip through the pages, up until he came to about the twenty-eighth.

Twenty-eighth page -- "For Rian". Written when he was 19, and he had finally realized the brunt of his sexuality. Written at least 5 years after "For Brigit". He remembered Rian. His first boyfriend. His was the name that he had tried to obscure Mark's with on the top of the page of his own poem.

And even though Jack had loved him dearly, he had never felt quite like this around him before.

Jack had never believed in love at first sight. He barely believed in crush at first sight. But damn, this was the closest thing Jack had ever experienced to actually being it. Mark was an enigma. A puzzle, just waiting to be solved. A code that tried desperately not to be translated into clear English. A starry night sky, full of hidden constellations that no astronomer had even thought of before.

Close the book. Mark is coming back.

With guitar in tow, surprisingly.

"I'm not exactly sure why I left it on my dryer, but hey. I guess, it's better than not finding it at all, right?" he asked.

Jack nodded, suddenly feeling anxious. He wasn't 100% sure if he wanted to do this anymore. What if Mark saw through the hasty scribbling out of his name on the page and realized that Jack had written a poem about HIM? What if Mark saw through his lie and knew that Jack had a blooming crush on him? Or worse, would Mark suddenly realize that he didn't like the poem nearly as much as he did that morning?

He hated to even think about it, so instead, he just cleared his throat and grabbed the notebook in hand, turning it to the page where Mark's poem was located.

Forty-second page -- "Mark", then scribbled out and replaced with "Rian". As soon as Jack knew that Mark would never look at the notebook again, he was going to scribble back over "Rian" and replace it to it's original title.

This wasn't for the past boyfriend that never spent any time with Jack, and looked down on him like he was a peasant trying to speak to the prince. This wasn't for the past boyfriend who only talked to Jack when he was sure that nobody else was around, and always refused to love him whenever anybody of relative interest to him dared to look at them twice. This wasn't for the past boyfriend that moved on from their relationship after only a month after their breakup. This wasn't for the past boyfriend who still lived in denial of who he truly was, and kept trying to play up his relationships with girls, then would return home to his actual boyfriend and end up treating him worse than the fake girlfriends he kept around him in public.

This was for Mark, the current crush that gave him a second chance, even after he flubbed up royally. This was for Mark, the current crush who listened to his poem at four in the morning, even though he should have been trying to get some sleep. This was for Mark, the first person that made Jack feel immediately comfortable in his own skin. This was for Mark, the guy that paid for Jack to ride the bus home, even though he was drunk off his ass and had never met him.

This was for Mark, the guy that actually gave Jack a reason to write that poem in the first place.


	6. Written by a Leprechaun

Mark had to admit, he had never thought he would be in this situation.

This guy was strange. He was VERY strange. He had a weird aura about him that screamed both, "I am trying way too hard to be artsy and deep and philosophical", and "I am too fucking tired to deal with your shit right now and honestly I'm also a bit hungover so make like a tree and get the fuck out of my sight". Jack was a fitting name, because it sounded just modern enough to be trendy, but had been around for long enough to be considered an "old" name. And it completely fit the way that he presented himself. It was always weird how some people fit their names so well, Mark noticed.

And here they were, with Mark not really sure how he had managed to get in this situation, where he, guitar in hand, was about to write a song to the lyrics that Jack had provided him.

And, keep in mind, the two had only met the night prior. Maybe 8 or 9 hours ago, actually, now that Mark thought about it.

He still didn't know how fate had managed to get Jack to perfectly land the kiss while tripping on the final step of the bus.

But, honestly, Mark hadn't really minded. It wasn't a BAD kiss, by any means. Jack was definitely not the WORST kisser on the face of the Earth. AND, keep in mind, his ability was more than likely impaired due to the flood of booze to the brain. Which meant that he was even better when he wasn't drunk off his rocker.

He was definitely not afraid to admit that he had thought about the possibility of something working out between the two of them.

Because good Lord this boy was cute. AND simultaneously hot. AND also a giant fucking goofball. AND gay. Which helped. AND Irish. (Lord help Mark when it comes to accents. He loved the thought of going to Europe and getting to see the amazing landmarks and everything there. And he also loved the accents. They only served to make someone more endearing, as far as Mark was concerned.)

Also, he was artistic. And that was a great thing about him. When he heard Jack's poem, he felt CHILLS. It was beautiful, and clever, and complex, and thought-provoking, and stunning, and captivating... That was when Mark knew that he had to sing it.

But, at the same time, he didn't know if he could really do it justice.

Sure, it was a beautiful poem--one of the most beautiful poems he had ever heard in his life--but he wasn't sure if a voice as meager as his could capture the feeling of the words into a song. The poem was nothing short of breathtaking, and Mark was, to put it bluntly, scared out of his fucking mind. What if Jack didn't like the melody he had written? What if Mark didn't end up liking it? What if he accidentally broke his heart?

Either way, Mark was going to ensure that this was the best performance he had ever given.

All for a random poem written by a leprechaun.

* * *

"Holy fuck, dude, that was fuckin' AWESOME!" Jack yelled, giving Mark a smile.

Mark wished he could take a picture of that smile and keep it with him for the rest of the day, because that was quite possibly one of the brightest smiles he had ever received from anyone in his life.

He felt a blush coming on. This was a rare occasion, because he NEVER blushed. "Uh, you really liked it that much? I didn't think it was that good, really."

Jack shook his head. "Don't be so modest, that was AMAZIN'! You made my poem actually sound GOOD." He sounded so sincere, and Mark was grateful for that. Had he not sounded so sincere, Mark would've definitely had a hard time believing him.

"Hey, YOU stop being so modest. No good song is complete without an amazing writer. Seriously, that poem you wrote was amazing. I just set it to a couple chords."

Jack rolled his eyes. "Okay, okay, stop being cheesy. Seriously. If THAT'S the way that my poems sound, then I want you to sing every single damn one of 'em. Honestly, you have a talent. I could never do that."

Mark shrugged, setting the guitar he had been holding upright on the floor, propping it up against the space between them on his couch. "Not really. I just learned how to play, so I'm not very good at it yet, and I've only been taking singing lessons for about 6 months." And that was the truth. Any potential that Jack saw in him was simply "raw talent", although he didn't really consider it so much that as it was simple luck. He had managed to have a half-decent voice, which helped him out immensely in this industry. But while it was half-decent, that sort of description was NOT going to cut it.

A strange feeling washed over Mark as he wished that the guitar wasn't a barrier between them.

But whatever. This was fine. After all, it HAD only been 8 to 9 hours since they had first met. Things were moving a little fast, admittedly, since they were already acting like they were best friends, and they were merely strangers.

Also, how convenient was it that they ended up living right next to each other?

How dumb was Mark that he didn't notice someone as cute as Jack at least once? Was he simply blind? Or was it because he hadn't ever really cared much about the other people in his building before now?

"Even so, you're really good! You've got a lot of talent to be able to do that! See, I used 'ta play the drums when I was younger. Was in a band. I was actually pretty okay. But any monkey with a sense of rhythm can play the drums. You gotta have TALENT to play anything else."

Mark shook his head. Drums still required ability. EVERY instrument required some ability. Jack could still probably play the drums if he tried it. Plus, Mark had never really picked up a guitar in his life before starting to learn. Sure, he had TRIED to learn by ear, but he was never really good at picking that sort of thing up. The lessons had definitely helped him, and he was grateful for the opportunity to even take them in the first place.

"I'm sure that if you picked up a pair of drumsticks again, you'd be able to solo with the best of 'em," Mark replied, giving him an encouraging smirk.

Jack gave a nervous laugh. "See, ya say that, but really, I haven't played for a long time. Seriously, I think I'd sooner spontaneously combust than I'd get a round of applause for a fuckin' drum solo. You have some high hopes there, Mr. Mark."

"Whatever, you know you'd be amazing at it."

Jack rolled his eyes. "I'm not really good at anythin', I tell ya. Seriously, I'm not even that good at writin' poems."

"Oh my GOD, shut UP!" Mark said, half-laughing. He grabbed the cushion from his side of the couch and threw it at Jack, hitting him in the shoulder. He then stayed in the position he had landed in, practically lying down. "You wrote an amazing poem. Although, I have to ask, what was the name you crossed out before writing the one you gave me? Y'know, the one you put before Rian?"

"The name was always Rian. I just misspelled it at first. Crossed it out, replaced it with the right spellin', Bob's your fuckin' uncle."

For some reason, Jack seemed a bit unnerved by Mark's line of questioning. But, seeing as he didn't have much else to ask him on the matter, Mark decided to leave it at that. It wasn't like it was HIS name scribbled out. Even if it was, it wouldn't have been WEIRD.

Or... would it have been?

The poem was no doubt romantic. It captured the essence of having feelings for someone very well. It... Mark couldn't really even describe it. He was never poetic enough to come up with anything like that. He had never been one for the metaphorical.

But the descriptions were just so... Mark really couldn't even begin to go into detail, they were THAT stunning.

And, yet, for some odd reason, Mark still felt like there was something Jack was hiding about the entire ordeal.

Whatever. He wasn't going to start questioning him.

"Anyway, what time is it?" Mark asked, sitting back up, looking over to Jack.

Jack checked the watch that he was wearing and replied, "12:03. Exact."

"Shit, we looked for my guitar for an hour and a half? Damn. Well, should we stop somewhere to get lunch or something?"

Jack shrugged. "I don't know. It's whatever, I guess. I mean, only if you really want to. Which, if you don't, then that's totally fine. I mean... I should probably get goin'. What with the whole 'starving artist' thing. Gotta keep working on my book 'a poems."

Mark was intrigued. He hadn't known that Jack was planning on writing an entire BOOK of poems. If they were all as amazing as the one that was sitting in front of him (which Mark didn't doubt for a single second), then he was going to have to do everything in his power to be his publishing wingman. After all, if these poems were as good as what he had just written, then everyone needed to be graced with them.

These poems couldn't be wasted and not shared. The world needed to know that they existed and were there.

So Mark, while he hated letting Jack go, didn't stop Jack from scooping up his book of poems and waving goodbye as he stepped out of his door and back into the hallway that they had never realized they both occupied.

Mark still didn't understand it, honestly.

He should've noticed someone as... all-encompassing as Jack before. He should've seen someone as bright. He should've easily remembered someone as unforgettable. He should've kept someone as brilliant and radiant in his mind. Jack was one of those people that entered the room and made the lights suddenly seem a little dimmer than they had previously. His smile was as bright as the Sun, and his eyes were like stars, it seemed. Mark would have definitely remembered ever meeting him. There was no way he could forget something like that.

Jack was a strange sort of person. He was not only the most effervescent person in a room, but he was also the most conventionally brilliant. And, in a strange way, he seemed to acknowledge this. He was a smartass, that was definite. But at the same time, Mark never felt like he was being cocky for acknowledging that he was smart. It was a weird sort of paradox.

He grabbed the guitar from next to him and arranged his fingers into a chord.

Maybe Jack was going to help him start to write some songs of his own.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic here on AO3, and I might make it an ongoing series if people like it enough, but if not, I'll leave it as a one-shot.  
> Hope you liked it! Thanks for reading! <3


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